


The gift

by Servena



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Death, Gen, Suicide, mentions rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servena/pseuds/Servena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows what she wants, but she can't seem to get the words out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The gift

She looks at him, weighing her words. His eyes are a pale blue and she looks for pity or maybe anger, but they are revealing nothing. Her mouth is dry and she can't seem to get the words out. She doesn't have words for this.

“Please”, she says. Just this. “Please.” It sounds small in the pressing silence, scared. Sudden anger wells up inside her and she grabs the hilt of her sword tighter. This is not her, this small, frightened girl. She's a fighter. Why couldn't she be just that? (But still a girl, a woman, she hates it, more than she ever has before.)

He doesn't answer immediately, instead his gaze moves back to his own sword. Her eyes follow the sure movements of his hands as he slides the whetstone across the edge of the blade again and again. It's already sharp, she knows, as is her own, and it's something to calm the nerves, if nothing else. The steel of her own weapon feels cool against her skin as she moves her hand along. Her fingers slide across the edge, without enough pressure to draw blood.

He is going to say no, she realizes suddenly. He hasn't yet, but he will.

“I have never...” She doesn't know how to say it. She can read in his expression as he looks up that she doesn't need to. Against her will she feels the heat creep up her face. Her own embarrassment makes her angry.

What's left unsaid hangs in the room as clearly as if she had it written on the wall.

I don't want them to have it.

I'm not afraid of death, but I'm afraid of this.

Please.

Finally, he puts the sword away and sighs, barely audible. “If this is what you want, sweet girl?”

Her throat feels raw. She can taste the blood on her mouth from the chewing of her lips. “Yes.”

“Then I will do it.”

The light of the torch flickers across him and makes his hair look redder than it is. Like fire, she thinks. No, like blood. “Swear it”, she demands.

He doesn't hesitate. “By the seven new gods and the old gods beyond counting, I swear it.”

She swallows. A part of her wants to take back her words right then, it wants to cry on his shoulder and make him promise everything is going to be alright. She bites down the urge and grabs for her sword to slide the whetstone across it again. “Thank you”, she says softly.

“Valar morghulis.” She can feel his fingers brush against her cheek as he leans over to tug a strand of hair behind her ear. Then he presses a kiss on the top of her head, light, with barely a touch. The sword is lying beside him, shining in the firelight. Waiting, promising a fast end to all fears and sorrows. She is grateful.

For death is the only gift a faceless man has to give.


End file.
